


A Study In Domesticity

by papergirlinapapertown (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Feels, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:25:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/papergirlinapapertown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the two best agents that ever worked for SHIELD deal with their shit: Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Domesticity

Dawn broke, as she curled up her hand where Clint’s ribs ended and his muscles began. The warmness of his belly, the solidity of his body, comforted Natasha more than anything she’d ever felt. This was worrying. She had been taught not to feel, that feeling was weak. Love your enemy until you kill him in his sleep. She had stayed awake while men had slept in her bed before, but for the first time, her lack of sleep was punctuated by her desire to lose herself in him. She wanted to sleep. This was bad. Weak.  
So caught in her thoughts, it took her a minute to drag herself out of her mind and realise that the object of her fixation was staring at her as she stared at nothingness. 

“Hi,” he said, simply. 

“Hi, yourself,” she replied, always defensive, always deflecting. God, it was so tiring. She sat up to clear her mind, turned away from him, and sat at the edge of their bed. Was it really their bed? When had it become theirs? They both agreed to crash at his place after their last mission (it was closer after all), and fell asleep next to each other without considering the implications. They were at his apartment, in his country, but it was their bed. It was an island of home in an ocean of confusion. She liked it, and simultaneously realised that she had gotten lost in herself again. She turned her head and stared at Clint out the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her. Damn.

“You looking at something, Hawk?” If she could literally say one thing without sounding defensive, that would be great, but no, she’s a fucking Romanov so this is how it plays out.

“Yeah, I am, Widow,” and he says her name-- no her codename, she had a name now—with much more scorn than she had said his with. Not wanting to push him, she nodded sharply and stood up.  
He watched her with his hawk eyes, following her across the room. She had worn her own grey t-shirt to bed, and by the looks of it, just that shirt and her underwear. It barely skimmed the top of her thighs, and her legs, muscled and pale, capable of killing men at the first sign of weakness, looked like heaven to Clint. He struggled with her guardedness, the seemingly random bouts of her coming out of her shell and returning so quickly that he had a hard time adapting to it. He stayed, though, and she noted that. She disappeared from the room into the kitchen, as Clint tried to cling to the last of her warmth in the sheets. The place where her fist had rested on his front felt warmer than the rest of him. He wondered what that said about the assassin with the fire hair.

The assassin in question came back into the room with two cups of coffee he hadn't heard her make. She put the one on the end table on his side of the bed, drew the curtains as she walked to her side, and crawled back into the space she had left in their bed. He sat up and took his coffee. She had remembered how he drinks it, cream and no sugar. She had hers black with no sugars either.  
For a long moment, they sat together, drinking their bitter liquid in a comfortable silence, drawn out like a prelude to a symphony. The wintery sunlight flooded their room, barely reaching the bed. She drained her mug, placed on the table on her side, and crossed the expanse between them with her leg. As she traced her foot, en pointe, up Clint’s leg from his ankle, he realised he had been wrong, she had worn not only her shirt but her socks as well. When her foot reached halfway up his thigh, he caught her ankle firmly. He looked at her as he drained his own mug, put it down behind him, and pulled her under him, while he leaned over her with his other hand next to her body and his knee in between her legs. She reached her hands under his arms to rake her nails down his back. She stopped to pull herself up and kiss him lightly, once, and then again and again, until he lowered his head and responded by kissed her fiercely. Not one to be complacent, she returned the favour, pushing him back til he was sitting on his haunches and she was straddling his knee. Natasha dragged her nails down his back again, and he shuddered. She pulled back.

“Is this okay?” She wanted his approval, needed his permission to occupy his body. 

“God, yes.” His voice was huskier by at least an octave and she felt proud knowing that she had caused it. She slid her hands underneath his shirt and touched his warmth, tracing up his spine and pulling off his shirt. His muscles flexed as they felt the cold of the room. Natasha pushed her body against his, undulating against him as she kissed him with her hands twisting in his hair. He exhaled sharply into the kiss and reached for the edge of her shirt, wanting to be equal in their undressing. She let him, raising her hands above her head, flinching in turn at the lack of heat in the room. Clint’s arms encircled her and laid her down again, as they continued to kiss, her hands in his hair once more, then moving down to remove him from his pants. She pulled up the covers over them, feeling the chill invade their moment. His hands moved down her body, and she gasped when they settled over her breasts. His calloused thumb was moving in circles around her nipples, already stiff from the cold. She arched her back into his body, needing friction, movement, him, anything. She loved becoming undone under the best of circumstances, but with the level of intimacy she reached with Clint it intensified the feeling so much more, as her legs wrapped themselves around his waist, pulling him closer. He broke the kiss and dropped his head to kiss her breastbone, her diaphragm, her bellybutton, sending electricity up her spine every time his lips connected with her flesh. He hovered over her pubic bone, his hot breath over her pussy giving her goose bumps, before sucking on her clit just once. Her hands drove into his hair, pulling him closer, but he resisted, hands on her hips, holding them down, smiling up at her until she moaned his name, breathily, and then his tongue touched her again, and Oh God sweet Jesus Lord did he know what to do with his mouth. She came absurdly quickly, without anything in her, panting and repeating his name like a profanity. Clint fucked her with his tongue through her orgasm, snaking his hand up to stroke her left breast again. He came up to her, mouth glistening, kissed her with her own taste on his lips. She felt no shame at enjoying the sharp flavour.

“Do you want to use a condom?” he asked, pulling away for a second.

“No, I’m on the pill, I trust you,” she answered immediately. SHIELD tested them all the time and took care of any ‘problems’ after missions.

He entered her at the same time as he kissed her, driving himself up into her until she enveloped him completely, her tightness almost making him come right then. Her legs were around his waist again, pulling him closer into her, as he fucked into her at a punishing pace, and as she tilted her hips, he slammed into her G-spot, making her see stars as she came while he kept pushing her to the limit. He fucked her through another orgasm before the clenching of her walls caused him to spill into her as he came, collapsing on top of Natasha.  
They breathed into each others hair as they recovered. 

“Jesus, Tash,” he breathed.

She made no reply, only nibbled his ear gently.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever fic, so please leave a comment if you liked it!


End file.
